Presently a young fellow with flaxen hair, a pendent underlip,
and a tall, ungainly figure, by name Mishuk Diatlov, essayed to
troll the stanza:

"That morn to him the maiden came,
To find his soul had fled."

Whereupon the old soldier shouted:

"Hi, you! Have you forgotten the day?"

And even Boev saw fit to take umbrage at the singing, and,
threatening Diatlov with his fist, to rap out:

"Ah, sobatchnia dusha!" ["Soul of a dog."]

"What a rude, rough, primitive lot we Russians are!" commented
Ossip, seating himself atop of the icebreaker, and screwing up
his eyes to measure its fall. "To speak plainly, we Russians
are sheer barbarians. Once upon a time, I may tell you, an
anchorite happened to be on his travels; and as the people came
pressing around him, and kneeling to him, and tearfully
beseeching him with the words, '0h holy father, intercede for us
with the wolves which are devouring our substance!' he replied:
'Ha! Are you, or are you not, Orthodox Christians? See that I
assign you not to condign perdition!' Yes, angry, in very truth
he was. Nay, he even spat in the people's faces. Yet in reality
he was a kindly old man, for his eyes kept shedding tears
equally with theirs."